


Life Left

by authoresswithoutwords



Series: Left [12]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward Attempt at Humour, F/M, Love at First Sight, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24647284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoresswithoutwords/pseuds/authoresswithoutwords
Summary: This is the story of how Sirius Black meets his soumate after a year of travelling and kind of ends up charming her.Sirius-ly, he's not Kidding.//This story can be read without any other in this series, though it might be a bit confusing in parts.//
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Sirius Black/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Left [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658788
Comments: 15
Kudos: 342





	Life Left

**Author's Note:**

> As per AiledArgent's request, a closer look at Sirius after he's left Britain.
> 
> Fair warning: This is supposed to be funny and flippant.
> 
> You've probably read The Left Words.
> 
> You know I'm not a funny and flippant writer, so... read at your own risk!

At first, Sirius doesn’t even notice her.

And why would he? He’s on holiday, enjoying the hot Madrid weather more than a proper Englishman should and twice as much as a pureblood would deem appropriate, recovering from his lover in Paris and the subsequent chase by her jealous now-ex-husband. What? He's enjoying life to the fullest! So what if that includes giggling with beautiful women and hexing all manners of arseholes and writing to his beloved Godson and disappearing before the answer can arrive to enjoy the passive-aggressive Howlers he receives as a result? It's not like he doesn't also do good. Honestly, just last month, he destroyed a creature smuggling ring! So what if he got some praise from Harry as a result and also got to let go and curse those bastards almost to their graves while still tempting fate and satisfying every reckless instinct that makes up his Gryffindor, post-imprisonment self?

So for now, he's just relaxing and seeing how long it'll take for someone to throw him out of this Pureblood resort where he very obviously doesn't fit in.

In his hand is a cocktail the like he hasn’t had since long before Az- before all of this disaster happened, he’s lounging on this sunbed in a way that would strike his bitch of a mother dead if she could see him, and the breeze is nice.

He closes his eyes and basks in the peace and quiet.

Perfect.

To be honest, though, even if he had seen her, he wouldn’t have looked at her twice. Sure, she is pretty, in a modest and mousy pureblood-accepted way, but she’s not the looker with red lips and dark eyes and deep cleavages he’s drawn to for a night of fun before continuing on with his travels. She looks kind of frail, almost like a gust of wind wouldn’t even need to be strong to blow her over, and has her eyes lowered demurely as a proper unwed pureblood lady should for Merlin forbid a woman ever has fun in her life.

Sirius likes his women with vibrancy. He wants to feel like he can touch them and won’t have to be careful. He doesn’t want to keep his eyes strictly on her eyebrows as he won’t even see her eyes because propriety dictates she should look down. He wants confidence, wants playfulness, wants seduction.

He never was into that whole blushing virgin thing that all purebloods are apparently hot for and that they shame their daughters and wives into behaving as, no matter that a mother of two can, by definition, no longer be a blushing virgin.

Yes, he does sometimes wonder why his mother hadn’t killed his father so gruesomely no-one would be able to even identify the pieces left, and yes, sometimes it’s more than clear why exactly dear Bella turned out the way she did. He is not blind or stupid, thank you very much.

Anyways.

She’s the dainty kind of pureblood so brainwashed into traditions that doesn’t interest him. One could even say that she looks like the total opposite of anything he’s ever wanted in a woman.

Until, well…

One of the guests with a drink and a drug too much in him steps closer to where she’s lifting her hat to get at least a bit of cooler air to her scalp. As he walks past Sirius’ feet, which hang off the sunbed indecently and to top it off bare, he rudely bumps into them and, having knocked Sirius out of his relaxed mood, doesn’t even stop marching on.

With all the politeness a pervert can muster, he offers, “Hey, pretty, I can help you take off your clothes if you need me to.”

That makes Sirius sit up, because no matter where he is, he could never deny being a hot-headed Gryffindor striving to save the damsel. But first, of course, like the gentleman he is, he assures himself that the damsel needs saving because Merlin’s beard, one wrong attempt to save Lily from that Slytherin creep that always hung around her like a bad smell was all he needed to learn not to even try to do anything even remotely similar to an unwelcome damsel-saving-mission.

In the future, Sirius would be counting along. Strike one: the rude address. Strike two: the pet name. Strike three: the overall creepiness. Strike four: the choice of words indirectly telling her that she needs someone to help her do something as easy as taking off her clothes.

Her voice is sweet and meek when she replies that she is comfortable as she is, thank you very much.

She’s wearing traditional three-layered robes, covering her wrist to ankle to collarbone. It doesn’t matter that she’s sneakily switched out the heavy fabric for something light as silk and applied cooling charms like they’re going out of fashion – she is dressed too warmly for this kind of weather and anyone with eyes can see she’s hot.

The unfortunate drunk continues, “You’re not fine. Just look at you! I know you want to get out of those clothes. Don’t you know that it’s way too hot for clothes like these?”

Strike five: telling her she is wrong about what she’s feeling like she’s a child who can’t tell that a sword through the arm fucking hurts. Strike six: telling her that he knows what she wants and feels better than her. Strike seven: belittling her and patronising her by assuming that just because she wore thick clothes, she doesn’t know that Madrid in summer in bright sunshine with temperatures rising almost scarily can get quite warm.

Then, strike out – he touches her without permission to feel up her forehead as if she’s some sort of errant snot-nosed brat who’s running a fever.

She kindly, but politely, tells him to fuck off in such a sweet dainty way that he’s scuttled off before he’s even noticed how many times she called him stupid in the course of a five-minutes monologue.

“Holy Merlin, woman, that was the most amazing smackdown I’ve ever seen!”

Her eyes flutter to him, surprised, and meet his for a fraction of a moment before they obediently look down again.

This time, however, Sirius sees it for the mask it is, and barks out a laugh. He swings his feet around the edge of the sunbed, sitting closer to her.

“I’m Sirius, by the way,” he says, offering his hand.

She stares at the floor, saying nothing.

“Y’know, this is the moment where we’re supposed to shake.”

He twitches his hand invitingly and wiggles his eyebrows, probably looking like a complete lunatic, but who cares?

She doesn’t, obviously, as she reaches out with a pale and well-manicured hand and shakes his hand once, twice. Her grip is maybe a touch too tight, her skin uncomfortably sweaty, quite a bit removed from the limp touch-and-back-again that a pureblood lady should do, but Sirius quickly loses his train of thought as she introduces herself.

“Hello, Sirius. I’m your soulmate.”

To his endless delight, she answers his disbelieving, “Are you kidding me?” with an appropriately badly punned, “No, I was serious. But actually, since you want to be Sirius, I must be Kidding, then.”

From then on, it’s clear: This woman is perfect.

They spend the rest of the afternoon talking, mostly about their plans for the next few days. Sirius admits that he’s journeying around Europe and was actually planning on leaving the next day or so, and she admits to being hot enough to rip the next one to annoy her to pieces if only she could find the energy.

“Why are you wearing all this, then?” Sirius asks with a nod to her clothes.

He’s still sitting on the sunbed, though she’s taken a seat on the one opposite him, her legs crossed properly as if anyone could see her knickers under her three ankle-length skirts if she didn’t. Between them stands a little table with two beers, a bowl of ice kept permanently cool and a disgustingly girly pink cocktail for him.

What? He loves those little flags that come with them.

She looks him up and down sharply, but seeing only curiosity, she replies, “This attire is fitting for the young lady of a pureblood Family.”

Sirius snorts. “Yeah, as long as daddy dearest is watching over your shoulder. I bet as soon as he turns around, all those layers are coming off.”

She leans forwards, smiles, taps his nose with a finger that is too high-born to have ever seen hard work before. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I wouldn’t like, I do know. And no, I couldn’t care less, you know. They’re your damn clothes. If you want to run around in nothing but a few well-placed leaves, who’s to stop you?”

He shrugs and she smiles weirdly. “I don’t think you and my father would get along well, I must admit.”

He sits up straight, fake-affronted. “Hey! If I wanted to, I could totally play the pureblood ponce!” He sinks back down into his usual bad posture. “Looking at how you look and act and how you want to act, I’m guessing I don’t give a fuck about who your dad would like or not, though it’s probably best for his welfare if he never met me.”

She bites her lip as she refrains from giggling.

Shortly after, they fall into a comfortable conversation, him mocking the pureblood guests all around who either look like they can’t get the stick out of their arses or who’ve drunk their manners out of their brains, her throwing in innocuous snide comments that make everything he says sound nice.

As the sun is setting, she leaves.

“Wait!” he calls after her. “You didn’t tell me your name!”

She turns around, holding her hat down against the wind, her hair flying out of its perfect hairdo to flutter around her cheeks messily. Her cheeks are red from laughing. Her lips are pulled into a small mysterious smile.

“Guess you’ll have to find out tomorrow!”

He doesn’t, and not the day after or the day after.

He also doesn’t care.

She’s nice and kind if she wants to be and cheeky and fiery all the time. She detests and ignores all rules when she can and stretches them to their limits when she has to follow them. Her strict upbringing makes her behave and seem tame and meek, but her great skill with her tongue – and he doesn’t only mean that literally – lets her shoot out barbs and insults like there’s no tomorrow without anyone catching on.

Sirius thinks it’s hilarious, obviously. He himself has never had the patience for games like that and is much more likely and willing to spell his opponent’s defeat out with his wand, but watching her run circles around all those conceited purebloods who think they’re so smart – well, it’s highly appealing and also kind of reminds him of Harry and yuck, anything related to sexy and anything related to his little Godson should never be put in the same sentence, thank you very much.

She quickly finds out that Sirius likes rules as much as she does and they get into some pretty embarrassing incidents because of it, neither willing to give in or back down.

They must make a strange couple, he with his wide grin and untamed hair, she with her pureblood mask of polite disinterest and perfect appearance.

To his delight, she has a temper to match his, even if it takes her longer to get going. When she’s getting angry, she starts pulling on a strand of hair, and when she lets it fall without putting it back in that day’s complicated hairdo, you better run.

Seriously. Sirius has never heard a more violent furious tirade and never feared an overpowered Stinging Hex so much. As the pureblood idiot rolling on the ground in front of him can attest, it fucking hurts to feel it on- well, in a very, very private place that likes being unhurt very much.

As she still hasn’t told him her name – an incentive for him to keep coming back, as she keeps saying –, he calls her Kidding for her Sirius-ly awesome pun at the very beginning of their acquaintance.

The first time he called her that, she glared at him with so much fire in her eyes that he could only grin in the face of it, unafraid as only a suicidal Gryffindor can be.

Now, the glare has become half-hearted, and a nice little red spreads across her cheeks.

She’s also, as she calls it, a flaming feminist. It’s apparently a muggle concept that’s basically a short way of saying, “I think we’re all human beings and as such I think we should be treated the same regardless of sex, gender, race, sexuality or whatever else nasty is going around right now” or, as Sirius puts it, “Don’t be such dickheads or you’ll see how your live feels without a dick.”

It may earn him a lecture about “toxic femininity” and “toxic masculinity” and “not everyone evil out there has to have a dick, Sirius, why would you even assume that?”, but she notably doesn’t disagree with the sentiment.

Watching her, a beautiful young woman, move around a resort filled with party goers and rich teenagers, he kind of gets that it’s more of an issue than giving daughters away with a dowry and letting only sons inherit and women being mothers first and everything else later and girls “choosing” to act in traditional ways that he’s always thought of before.

Though, in his defence, being raised by a bitch of a mother and a cold-hearted bastard of a father and a young innocent little brother and then basically only interacting with Lily Evans who’d fucking eviscerate you before you even thought of being mean to her kind of removed him from the image of what the average woman is like, especially in the pureblood society he stayed away from like it’d eat him alive if he didn’t.

Kidding’s father is the kind of misogynistic racist traditional chauvinist that would make all other misogynistic racist traditional chauvinists blush in shame and raised his daughter accordingly. Seeing no other choice, Kidding grew up resourceful and cunning and so damn cheeky it’s a pleasure to watch. Her father may be able to control her behaviour and her clothes, but he bloody well isn’t able to deal with her personality and wit.

Yes, Kidding was a Slytherin. No, he doesn’t have any problem with that. Harry was in Slytherin and he turned out pretty damn near perfect, and his Godson-in-law is as Slytherin as can be down to the blood and ancestor. His darling little Godson set him so straight he’s pretty sure any thoughts about prejudice against that House are afraid of showing their ugly little heads in case he gets there to beat them back down.

When they get talking, Kidding reveals that she was, in fact, a Ravenclaw, thank you very much, and Sirius laughs until he’s crying because if convincing the Hat to put you into another House isn’t the epitome of a Slytherin, he doesn’t know what is.

Kidding doesn’t show any shock at all when Sirius tells her he was in Gryffindor.

“I went to school after you graduated,” she says wryly. “It was kind of hard not to have heard about you.”

This leads to a discussing about their favourite pranks and, for some reason, talking about their previous lovers.

“I’ve had my fair share of bedmates,” Kidding tells him in her prim and proper tone that she puts up when she’s uncomfortable. “Male and female.”

Sirius whistles. “Damn, that’s hot. Think you’ll ever show me a memory? Or, hey, we could have a threesome sometime!”

She grins, relieved, and that is that.

The same day that Sirius gets a delightfully sassy letter from Harry – _Poor Sirius, kept in one place so long your return owl can still find you! She really must have her crawls sunk into you to keep you standing still so long. Is she crazy enough to drag a flea-ridden dog home with her?_ –, Kidding announces that she’s put her father off as long as possible and that she needs to return about five minutes ago.

“Do you want to come along?” she asks, only half-joking.

Sirius replies, “And miss up on the chance of throwing your father in cardiac arrest with my appearance? Not a chance in hell I’m staying.”

She is relieved for a moment before something dawns on her and she is hesitant again.

“You know…” She takes a deep breath. “You should probably know my name if you want to slobber all over my bedsheets at home as well. My name is Guinevere, and if you ever call me that, I swear to all that is Magic that I will gut you, but my last name… I mean, my Family is called…” She hesitates again before she spits it out. “Avery. Guinevere Avery. Preferably Eve, though, if you want to keep your testicles attached to your body. But yes. Avery.”

“Like Death Eater Avery? Locked into Azkaban Avery?”

Tension enters her frame. “Yes. That Avery.”

“That’s your old man? No wonder he’s batshit crazy, then.”

She shoots a glare at him. “Like you’re one to talk. But no. I’m that Avery’s daughter biologically, but he was too busy being a Death Eater to worry all about silly things like children and family. His father, proud and all too happy with his decision and then disappointed and sure that he’d die in Azkaban, raised me instead.”

“Avery the Elder!” Sirius bursts out, all too familiar with the cranky old man. “That son of a bitch! Wow, it’s a wonder you’re not more screwed up.”

“Thank you very much,” Kidding – well, he’s going to have to call her Eve now, isn’t he? Oh no, he’s so not gonna! – says, smiling, her scathing tone undercut by the relief running through her slight form.

Sirius gives her time alone to put all her emotions away again, lest anyone thinks she’s a proper human being, and goes to pack, then starts thinking about how he’s going to take revenge on that nasty old bastard and wondering if old Voldemort really needs him still or if he can put just a littlest bit too much poison in his cup.

What? Two drops make for the perfect prank – any reaction ranging from mild nausea to pink hair, perfectly unpredictable and always amusing.

Anyways, when he has checked out of the hotel, he’s reasonably calm again. Kidding is still waiting for him, thankfully, and has also reached her usual state of pretend tranquillity.

“Say,” he opens up the conversation, grin just a touch too wide, “what do you think that old bastard’s gonna say if I show up in a perfectly pureblood-approved suit and robe and what-not in Gryffindor red so obnoxious I’d want to hit myself every time I catch sight of my sleeves?”

She giggles and they get planning.

The first meeting between Kidding and Harry is interesting, to say the least. They are both hopelessly polite, their manners impeccable, their smiles bright and bland and fake. They make seemingly meaningless small talk about the weather and dogs, or so Sirius thought until he saw the glint of triumph in the one or the other’s eye after delivering a boring line about flea repellents.

It’s horrible.

And he’s not even talking about Voldemort, sitting there, pleased like the cat who got the cream and the canary, looking like a normal human being – and when did that happen? – and sipping tea from a cup so fucking delicate even Sirius’ mother wouldn’t dare to even look at it. He’s looking inexplicably amused, but Sirius has got no idea whether that’s because of the conversation Sirius’s so obviously excluded from or from something else like Sirius’ hair which is still a ghastly yellow colour that refused to leave no matter how he spelled it. But yeah, mission accomplished: Old Avery never saw him coming, with his Gryffindor red suit and lion golden mane.

In the end, Sirius bemoans that he’ll have to stay in England now, checks out Voldemort’s liquor cabinet – and damn, does that man have a selection – and gets hammered so badly he’s hanging off Harry’s and Kidding’s necks. They both bear with him, but exchange looks similar enough that Sirius can’t stop laughing.

Voldemort announces, “No offence, my Harry, but I would prefer not to host your Godfather again soon.”

Harry, darling that he is, snorts and says, “Then find a way to get those two out of Britain.”

Kidding, with quite a bit of liquid courage, adds, “If there could be a way to permanently remove Avery Senior out of the equation, I would be indebted to you.”

Voldemort hums and promises to think on it, and then, Sirius is thrown through a fireplace and Kidding drags him to her bed and… tests out how well his body works when he’s drunk out of his mind, basically.

It’s glorious.

The next day, Voldemort shows up at their house, giving them an official missive to get the fuck out of Britain or, as he dubs it, “observing the reception of the regime change in Great Britain on the continent”, never mind that he’s been in power for almost two years now and any protest and danger brewing would have shown itself by now, undoubtably.

But, hey, who is Sirius to argue with the ruler of Magical Britain?

A neat touch is the once-a-month meet-up to “deliver the gained information”, the liaison between Voldemort and Sirius being Harry. So, in normal, not-Slytherin, honest words: Sirius’ got a date.

Obviously, it goes deeper than that. It shows that Britain’s finally safe enough for Harry to wander outside without heavy guards – or, actually, without Voldemort stuck to him because Merlin knows that paranoid fucker would never entrust Harry to his incompetent minions. It shows that Harry’s finally finished his Mastery exams so that he has free time again. It shows that Voldemort trusts Sirius with Harry, which – huge compliment to him, actually. It shows that Voldemort, in his own weird psychopathic way, likes Sirius and, by extension and – let’s be honest – probably more, Kidding. It shows that Harry likes Sirius enough to meet up with him on a regular basis. It shows that Harry likes Sirius enough that he convinced Voldemort to broker some sort of deal that convinced Avery Senior to allow Kidding out of his sexist paws. It shows that Voldemort and Harry trust Sirius – or probably Kidding, honestly – to actually do the job they’re officially signed up to do.

What? Just because Sirius likes acting dumb and whining about being excluded from tension-high and word play-frequent conversations doesn’t mean he doesn't get them. Hello? Pureblood-raised by Walburga fucking Black, the wickedest of all mothers, Marauder extraordinaire, Azkaban survivor and the Godfather of frigging Harry Potter. A weaker and more idiotic being would have died _long, long_ before now. Lookin’ at you, Pettigrew, you bloody traitor!

 _Acting_ like a fool is Sirius’ hobby, not _being_ a fool.

Seri- no, actually.

Sirius-ly.

Voldemort goes into detail, explaining what exactly they’re meant to do. Words such as “infiltrate” and “integrate” fall regularly. There’s Sirius with his easy-going manner, perfectly suited for Muggle and Muggleborn people, and then there’s Kidding with her born-and-bred Pureblood demeanour, basically guaranteed entry into all Pureblood haunts – they’re a dream team.

Former Order member and Death Eater Family.

The Light sheep of the Black Family and the beloved daughter of a Dark Family.

No-one would think the two of them in cahoots. No-one would think that they’ve been sent by Voldemort himself, scary and traditional bastard that he is. No-one would think that they would accept, even if offered such an opportunity.

Honestly, they’re the perfect fit.

With great pleasure, Sirius summarises, “We’re _spies_ now, my dear Kidding.”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t disagree.

For her, that’s a firm agreement.

And so, Sirius and Kidding go on their great adventure which – not to lie – quite often ends up with them kicked out of a club. Or a bar. Or, on one occasion, a hotel.

What can you say?

Not everyone recognises perfection.

And Sirius really doesn’t know what he did to deserve a flick on the forehead for saying that.

No, wait.

He Sirius-ly doesn’t know.

This flick, he definitely deserves.

Does he still whine and protest and cry about the unfairness of it all?

Are you kidding? Of course he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I hope you liked it and that it met your expectations!


End file.
